Love Can Only Conquer So Much
by Dustbunny3
Summary: One-shot collection. Unrelated stories about the relationships that don't quite work out. Couples, warnings and lengths will vary. Feel free to request pairings when you review.
1. Hurt :KaiShizHon:

Disclaimer: Dustbunny doesn't own YGO!

Relationship: Mystery triangle; kind of tricky (HINT: Eye color, people)

POV: Third person

Warning(s): Death; homicide and suicide. Also the meshing of canon and fanon for the triangle

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She whimpered, bloodshot eyes wide with terror. Drops of blood decorated her pale face. Tears streaked silently down her flaming cheeks. Her long hair, usually neat and silky in texture, was tangled and dirty. Tiny, frightened whimpers escaped her trembling lips. She wearily followed the activity of the young man in the center of the large room.

He stood, straitening his shirt, smearing the blood from his calloused fingers. His expression was eerily calm with a glint of satisfaction shining in his eyes as he looked down on his handiwork. His appearance was even more disheveled than hers. His white cotton shirt was stained beyond cleansing and horridly rumpled. The blue jeans he wore, brand new, were torn and splattered with blood. The same sticky red mess dirtied his tanned face. If he noticed he didn't seem to care; if he cared he didn't show it. He turned to her and smiled as none of it existed; as if all was well in the world

Smile withstanding, he walked casually closer. She shrunk back against the wall, trembling. Her honey eyes stared up at him, uncertain. Her breathing was shallow and rough. Every pulse point felt as if it might explode at any moment. She felt terrified and betrayed. How could he do this to her? She had trusted him, loved him as a close friend. And this was how he returned her trust, her affection?

All at once he crouched to face her. Her body pressed back fully against the wall as she tried desperately to disappear. She turned away and slammed her aching eyes shut. She didn't want to look at him; didn't want to se what was in store for her.

Seconds passed, kept faithfully by the clock that hung above her head. Nothing happened. Then, so softly that it almost went unnoticed, she felt his strong fingers brush against the cheek exposed to him. She let out a whine and shrunk further back at the touch. As she did his large hand cupped the cheek, the rough thumb messaging gentle circles along the bone. Daring to peak at him through a barely cracked eyelid, she saw him frown.

"Do you really think I'd hurt you?" he asked her quietly.

She closed her eye again and remained silent.

"I would never hurt you," his tone was almost soothing. "I thought you knew that."

She still refused to speak. In response to her silence his ministrations halted. His hand disappeared from her face altogether, only to reappear beneath her chin. While her eyes stayed tightly shut, he titled her face towards him. She only squeezed her lids tighter together.

"Won't you look at me?" he coaxed.

Slowly, still afraid, she opened her eyes. While what she saw started out fuzzy with moisture the picture eventually became clear. Sure enough, she was facing him, looking him strait in the eye. She shivered; he frowned deeper.

"Why are you afraid?" his question was innocent. "Because of him?" he gestured with his head at the mangled body lying behind him; she wouldn't look. "I wouldn't do that to you."

She couldn't speak if she wanted to. Instead she swallowed; forcing passed the obstruction in her throat. As she did the tears started flowing again. He looked distressed.

"Shh," he soothed, hand caressing her face yet again, "don't cry. It's okay."

Unable to respond she shook her head. How could he say such a thing? How could he lie so blatantly? It wasn't okay, could never again be okay. She attempted to speak the sentiment out loud but only sobbed. Tears flowed more rapidly and she coughed trying to get words out. Her nose was running but she didn't care enough to wipe it. All she wanted to do was wake up and find everything was a dream, a horrible nightmare. It had to be, right? He would never really do such a thing to her in real life.

As she continued to cry, he continued to stroke her face, speak soothingly. As seconds passed into minutes and her joints grew stiff the cruel realization tightened its grip. This was no dream. She wasn't going to wake up and find everything the way it was supposed to be. This was reality; nothing would be the way it was supposed to be again. The knowledge made her sob harder and she could sense his displeasure.

He grabbed her arms and she let out a yelp of terror. Had he finally gotten tired of hearing her cry? No, he pulled her into a hug. His hands now made circles that would have been soothing in other circumstances on her small back. Now the feeling of blood soaking through her shirt from his filthy hands made her shudder. She didn't return the hug but let both arms hang limply. It was no longer in her to stiffen up. Her muscles were aching because of how still she had been.

She opened her eyes again and whimpered at what her gaze landed on. The angle she was at gave her a perfect view of what she was crying for. Dull sapphire stared into her shimmering honey. She slammed her eyes shut.

"W- _why_?" she choked out, needing an explanation.

"He would have hurt you," the response was matter of fact. "I couldn't let that happen, could I?"

She could only shake her head again.

"I didn't want you to have to see it," he went on. "I didn't know you were coming until later, and then I hoped to be finished before you showed up. He just wouldn't cooperate."

She almost laughed despite her self. Just what the hell did he expect?

"I explained," she heard next. "I told him I wouldn't let him hurt you. I told him if he didn't fight it would go faster. I never meant to hurt him so bad. You weren't supposed to see it.'

She coughed again in a vain attempt to speak. Was this guy insane? She had always thought he was a reasonably intelligent person. Never had she witnessed any signs that he might not be all there. But then she had never found any reason to believe he would do what he had either.

"You hate me," he backed up to look her in the eye. She didn't bother trying to deny the claim. "I didn't mean to hurt you,' his frown deepened and his eyes pleaded. "I just wanted to keep you out of the way."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Could he really think she was crying over the shove he had given her? The push that had sent her against the wall? Didn't he get it?

"It's because of him," he ground. "You're crying for him." She could see realization within the depths of his eyes. "You're crying for him," his voice was soft, thoughtful.

The clock ticked away. Of all the things to be broken in the struggle, couldn't it have been one of them? The noise was driving her mad. She could plainly detect the time that passed. She could feel it as simply as the arms that stiffened around her.

Finally, he looked away. "I hurt you…"

He glanced at her again. She only stared back.

He let go of her and backed up. In a flash he stood and looked around as if he had been unable to see before. His eyes went wild as it dawned on him. For the first time he truly realized what he had done. He couldn't find the words to speak and instead breathed shallowly. He shook his head in denial and cast his eyes down, not wanting to believe it. She watched him with a mix of curiosity and worry from her place on the floor.

He turned to look at her, her pain reflected in his eyes. He quivered violently. All at once his hand disappeared into the pocket of his ruined coat. When it came back into view it clutched a silver pistol in its grip.

From her place she could only gape. Her eyes widened again and a scream caught in her throat. She shook her head and backed away. His eyes saddened as he watched.

He smiled sadly at her, apology seeping into his brown eyes. A few tears streamed unannounced down his bloody face.

"I love you," he stated simply, aiming.

A shot rang out, canceling out the scream that finally erupted from the girl. She continued to scream as the hansom teen fell to the floor mere feet from her, blood pouring through a hole on either side of his head. The gun hit the floor with a clatter, going off. Time stopped for a second, her throat catching as she saw the small but deadly projectile headed for her. It was the last thing she saw before her once perfect world went dark.

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Dustbunny: That's the end of that.

Bunnydust: Thankfully

Marshmallow: Please review!

Characters- Honda (killer), Shizuka (chick) and Kaiba (corpse)


	2. Shadow of Elegance :Mystery:

Disclaimer: Dustbunny doesn't own YGO!

Relationship: You find out at the end

POV: First person; a tad and a half of third at the end

Warning(s): There are two, maybe three curse words. This has suicide in it, too. Oh, and the couple isn't exactly... popular. But, that's how I am. If you wind up not liking the couple, please don't go nuts over it. I can do as my please in this story; I'm not afraid of you people. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do... stuff. Bye! #runs#

A/N: This concerns the last one-shot so feel free to skip it. I just wanted to say sorry for the original note I had at the top. I didn't think at first that it was that confusing. Then, when someone pointed it out to me, I looked back over it. Then it hit me: of course _I_ didn't think it was confusing, I wrote it. In so doing, I put hints at their identities that I would recognize. I'm sorry for anybody who got mixed up. I'll be more conscious of that in the future. Though I must point out the irony of how the person who brought up it being confusing to my attention was the first to get their identities right.

A/N: Also, about the last one-shot: I made the other guy who he was instead of going for canon because I don't think the killer would have snapped in the canon situation. He'd be upset, of course, but could get over it. But if the guy who wound up with the girl was the guy who was killed last story? Crap, I'd lose it too!

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It is a cloudless, starry night. The moon is showing off in its entirety, white and glowing and gorgeous. The air is clear and the temperature perfect. Crickets chirp as a whole, creating sweet harmony. Through the open window floats a soft breeze, bringing with it the beautiful smell of freshly bloomed flowers. A few petals, loosened from their respective blossoms, drift quietly into the large bedroom. They settle humbly on the floor where the moonlight pours in, creating a lovely effect of soft shadows and pale colors. Romance is swirling on the airwaves. And my lover, my fiancé… is sleeping.

I sigh softly and brush his long hair away from his face. Asleep, his face is gentle and relaxed, a vision of something godly. The moonbeams find their way around my slim body, over the expanse of silk bedding to play amongst the strands of his hair. He looks more hansom than ever. From slightly parted lips comes a soft sigh of his own. The corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile. I smile as well, wondering what he could be dreaming of. I can't help it; I lean down and place a small kiss on his lips, careful not to wake him. He whispers something and I freeze.

"What was that?" I whisper with dread, hoping I didn't hear what I had.

But he repeats the same word over. I did not misunderstand. I pull away and lay flat on my back, hoping that I can stop the tears by looking strait up. It doesn't work; the burning liquid flows without hesitation from the corners of my eyes. I gasp in a breath, trying to remain silent. Unable to stop the tears and worried he might wake up, I get swiftly but quietly out of bed and hurry on tip toe to and through our large, dark mahogany door. Before closing the door I glance back at him. He still lays peacefully. I pull the door shut behind me.

Out in the hall I can be louder. I walk in a rush down the long corridor to the sitting room. Once there I throw myself into a large armchair, burry my face in my arms and sob. Why did he have to say it? That one word. That one damn word! It ruined everything, tore my soul to shreds. And he had spoken it in his sleep, smiling happily. I thought it was over, that he had moved on. But apparently I was wrong. He had looked so at ease and happy. Would it have been too much for him to have screamed it in agony or cried in despair? But that wouldn't have helped either. It would mean the same thing; he hadn't moved on. He wasn't happy to be moving on with me.

I'm calmed down by now, anger having drowned out my sorrow. But my anger is quickly fading into something else; something I dread. I am falling into the grasp of pity. Not pity for him, but for me. I try to escape its clutches, try to revert back to anger or sorrow or, better yet, to switch to sympathy for him. But it doesn't work. Why should I be sympathetic for him? He has his precious dreams and soon he'll have me. But what do I have? I gave up everything for him, and I now find that he was never even mine after all. Where does that leave me?

Restless, I pull out of the comfortable confines of the chair and wipe my eyes as I stand. I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I have despised the idea since I was young, the entire concept. No matter the situation I always found someone else to be sorry for, someone else who needed it more. I won't stop now. If I can't direct my pity to another target I'll ignore it. The whole thing is that simple.

Mind made up, I smooth my rumpled silk nightgown and take several deep, calming breaths. I won't let this get to me any more. After all, I can't expect him to just forget. What a selfish thought! I immediately feel horrible for my behavior. It is to be expected that he might begin to dwell on old memories with our wedding approaching, after all. It had been difficult for him to propose in the first place, shadows of the past haunting his mind. And so I will act as expected, I will be understanding and caring. None of this will affect anything.

I smile despite myself. This silent vow deserves a reward and I am suddenly very thirsty. I decide to stop by the kitchen for a glass of water before heading back to the room. I rub my eyes as I go, not wanting any servants I might run into to realize I've been crying. Then too is the possibility of him waking up and finding me gone. If he went searching for me- as I am sure he would- he might see my swollen, blood-shot eyes. I definitely don't want that.

I walk quickly so he won't be too worried if he finds me gone. When it comes time for me to pass the door to our room I take long, graceful steps on tip toe. I hesitate when I'm a few feet past and listen. Nothing. He must still be sleeping. I grin at my craftiness and go on my way. Hopefully I can get my water and get back without him knowing I was gone. The last time I got up in the middle of the night he had scolded me; he was worried I might get lost since the place was so huge and I was new. The worst part is that I _had_ gotten lost.

The path to the kitchen takes me past my intended's drawing room. I'm sure exactly what he does in there but I assume it is a place to deal with important business. He always insists on being alone when he is there. I grin impishly. Anywhere he is prone to go there is prone to be something good for drinking. I have never been habitual when it comes to this particular type of drink but I feel that a celebration is in order. Looking around to make sure no one will see me enter this sacred den, I slip inside and close the door silently. Feeling proud of myself, I grope along the wall for a light switch. Finding one at last, I flip it and let my eyes adjust to the light before turning into it completely.

What I see shocks me to my core.

Portraits, photos, odds and ends all relating to the same subject- her. Her picture hangs everywhere and some snapshots show the two of them together. I suddenly feel extremely sick to my stomach. My heart aches, as it never has before. I take a deep breath- and taste perfume. I sniff the air, recognizing it. He had had a bottle from all those years ago; it had been a gift to her. It was her favorite scent. The room reeks of it.

Sorrow, anger and betrayal swirling inside me, I leave the room as hurriedly as I can. My mind is clouded and my eyes are doing no better. My lungs burn and work double to pump the stale, perfumed air from within. My upset stomach wills me to find a bathroom so it can heave. And my heart, my heart that has remained strong for such a long time, throbs with deep pain. I feel like curling up and dying. Instead I hurry to the kitchen, desperate for the glass of water that had led to my discovery.

By the time I reach my destination I'm sobbing uncontrollably. Far away is the fear that I might be discovered. It doesn't matter anymore. Let someone find me, let them know I've cried, let it be him. I grope for the cabinet that held the glasses. Unable to find it I turn to the sink and run the cold water at full blast. Body still wracked with wrenching sobs I cup my hands and bring drink after drink to my lips. Most of it goes down the front of my pale pink and blue nightgown, a gift. After some time I begin to submerge my hot face in the icy liquid, a pitiful attempt to calm myself. My hands have long since gone numb. The scorching tears continue to flow.

Why can't he be satisfied with me? She had been unearthly beautiful. And me? It takes no vanity for me to know that I am quite a catch myself. I might not have the flawless features that she did, but I am beyond pretty. He spoke more than once of her sweet, gentle nature and soft, melodic voice. Don't I have a gentle nature? It isn't the most trying task to anger me but I know how to remain calm. My voice… perhaps it isn't particularly melodic but I have been told more than once that my spirit seeps out through my voice as well as my eyes. Her eyes… in all the photographs, all the portraits, they had been gentle and expressive. Do I lack expression?

Cold water continues to assault me and I welcome it. Anger keeps me from cooling down, sorrow preventing the damming of the rivers of tears. I always tried not to be too upset when he spoke so vividly of her. I always sat quietly and listened, in truth a bit impressed that he still has a place for her after so long. And whenever he began to ramble, he would stop and close his eyes in reminiscence. Then he would look at me through his thick shocks of moonbeam hair with affection and say, "But those beautiful memories are the past. I have a beautiful future to look ahead to."

I laugh bitterly. What a joke! The water stays in a steady stream from the faucet and I don't bother stopping it. Instead I sink to the floor, no longer sobbing but with tears falling silently. My knees scrunch up to my chest and I hug the peaks. I can't quite feel my hands. I thought he loved me. But no, he still loves her. What am I? Just a warm body to help him forget? Yes, that was probably it. I'm a stand-in. But I can never be what she was. I can only be me. If only I had come first there may have been a chance. But no, I will forever be behind what he expects from having her. Forever I will be in her long, graceful shadow. I can never measure up.

Weakly, I start to stand. My legs are stiff from being so tightly packed and my knees don't want to cooperate. I reach out a shaky hand to stop the faucet water while the opposite arm holds my balance on the counter. I try to wipe my eyes but more salty moisture replaces whatever I evict. Finally I give up and attempt to walk. Legs still weak, I pitch forward and barely save myself by grabbing a drawer handle. The drawer it's attached to screeches several inches from its space. My eyes narrow at how pitiful I was. I force myself to stand upright with help from the drawer. I am about to close it when I happen to glance what was inside. The cool steel glints off outside lights. Dozens of utensils: spoons, forks… knives…

I shake my head and near slam the drawer in disgust. The very idea! It is selfish and cowardly, the easy way out. I have never been afraid of hard work. This is just another challenge to overcome. We can do it together. But then…

Absentmindedly, I re-open the compartment and gingerly take one of the stainless steel steak knives into my palm. I move it around, twirl it, experiment with the effect of the lights that filter in through the window. I feel myself smile oddly. It is pretty, so pretty. How would it look with a different effect? I turn the faucet back on to a drizzle. I catch the drops that fall and sprinkle them onto the knife. Lovely, simply lovely; a magnificent play on light and water. I begin to wonder. What would it look like… in color..? No doubt, very exquisite…

My mind snaps back to me in a flash. What the hell am I thinking? I shake my head and try to think clearly. I am behaving like a nut. I'm just upset, I reason, and have to calm down. But something in the back of my head still comes through to me. Maybe it would be better this way. I've always thought of suicide as a pathetic scheme for attention and sympathy. But there might be more to it than that. Perhaps all it needs is a bit more thought put into it.

He isn't happy with me like I thought. I'm not good enough, don't deserve him. Maybe, just maybe, there is someone out there who _could_ help him get over her. Possibly, there is a beautiful, gentle woman out in the world just waiting to be discovered by his love. She is the one who deserves to have him. I am an obstacle, our marriage an obstruction in their path. If I was gone, there would be a chance that he could find this other woman and truly be happy.

I smile, proud of my reasoning. This is the best thing to do. By my doing this he can be happy. There is no one else to be upset by it. My parents passed away years ago. All the wedding invitations I had sent out with deep hope to my friends were returned unopened. They don't care and in time he won't either. He just has to meet that woman. He can't forget the past because I'm not good enough to help him. But I will be easily overlooked when that time comes. I nod, pleased. This is right.

I look down at the object clutched in my hand. It glares back at me, daring me to go through with my plan. Rare is the time that I turn down a challenge. I raise my opposite hand, studying the slender wrist for the best place to make the cut. I spot it, the vessel giving me the same challenge. Now I am even more determined. I hold the knife against my flesh, making sure I have it lined up properly. I do. With a single, fluid movement I drag the knife across my skin and burst the vessel. Crimson flows from the gash. More of it makes its way along the blade. I had been correct. It is magnificent. Now to finish the job. I switch the knife to my bloody hand and study my other wrist as I had the first. I find what I'm looking for quickly. I repeat my actions and watch the resulting flow with a strange fascination. Then the dizziness hits.

My head feels light and my breathing is ragged. The bloodied blade falls from my grasp. I gasp as I feel my knees give way to my weight and buckle. I fall hard on the linoleum floor and wince at the pain in my joints. But it is soon forgotten as I pitch forward with nothing to hold onto. My brain screams at me to correct what I have done, the mistake I have made. I ignore the frantic messages. This is not its decision. This is a matter for my heart to decide and it has. My vision blurs and shuts down. I feel a pang of fear and regret as I feel my entire system being shut down. But, in the end, as I surrender to the comforting darkness, my only regret is ruining one in a set of knives and staining the lovely lilac tiles of the kitchen...

_And so she was no more. Meanwhile, as she faded, the man she was leaving behind remained in peaceful slumber. He had no cares in the world for all he was aware. The only thing concerning him was the dream his subconscious played for him. Out loud, he repeated what had sent his intended crying and spoke out more._

"_Cynthia," the name floated from his lips. "I'll always… love you. But I have her now. I'll… need to clean that room… You would like her, I think. I love her…"_

_As he mumbled his side of conversation from his dreamland, one arm ventured out to find the warm body beside him. His fingers splayed and his hand moved as far as the edge of the bed to find what it sought. But nothing was there. Groggily, he lifted is head to find her with sight as oppose to touch. When he didn't see her he was fully awake and raised the upper portion of his body for a better look. Confused, he called out for her._

"_Anzu?"_

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Dustbunny: #in hiding#

Anzu: ...

Pegasus: ...

Marshmallow: Erm... review?


	3. Don't Die for Me :RyouMiho:

Disclaimer: Dustbunny still doesn't own YGO!

Dustbunny: Hi, hi! I really have nothing to say, so... Bye-bye!

Relationship: RyouMiho

POV: Third person perspective

Warning(s): Character death; suggested murder. There's also a curse word a little further down. This is also a bit on the fluffy/corny side. Many, many apologies.

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"Don't you dare die on me!" cried Miho, tears streaming down her face. In the back of her mind she cursed the thug who had done this.

"You... may want to put me to the side, then," Ryou offered her a weak smile. But his morbid humor didn't distract her from the fear she could read in his eyes, fear and regret.

"No! An ambulance is on the way. Just hold on," she pleaded, shoulders racked with sobs. She was distraught personified; her usually neat hair was half pulled out of the band that held it. She wasn't sure where her trademark yellow ribbon was. Her school uniform was dirty and rumpled. One cheek was starting to develop a bruise and her legs were banged up and bloody.

"The bullet hit me... it hit me in the-" he tried to reason with her, prepare her for the inevitable. He should have known it was no use.

"I don't care where it hit you!" she declared stubbornly, shaking her head violently. "You're stronger than that! Please, just stay with me!"

"It's okay... Please... don't cry. I don't want to leave you crying," he sucked in shallow breaths, determined to spend the rest of his meager time with her.

"Then don't... don't leave at all... please, Ryou," she squeezed his hand tightly and stared directly into his ever-dimming eyes as she begged. If it was the last thing she did, she would make that creep pay for hurting Ryou. He had no right, just as he had had no right to touch her. But this was more than a slap across the face and a feel. This was Ryou's life. He had no right.

"I'm glad... to go like this, Ribbon," he attempted to reassure her, but knew the effort was futile. He only hoped that she would look back on his words some time and be comforted.

"Well, I'm not glad to see you go like this! I hear the siren; they'll be here soon," her watery eyes filled with hope. But it was false, as he saw that she was trying to deny. Even if he wasn't beyond saving, she could tell how far away the sirens were.

"It's... it's alright..." he whispered, barely audible. He was fading.

"It's not alright! Not yet. Soon, though. You'll be better soon," she babbled, hardly believing the words herself.

"You know... that's... a lie..." he told her bluntly, looking up at her, trying to find some way to help her understand.

"No!" she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to make reality disappear. She refused to believe that what he was saying was true.

"Yes..." he said as sternly as he could, trying not to wince too badly. "But don't... cry for me... I'm okay with it... as long as you're okay."

"I won't be if you don't make it!" she fixed him with a hard stare as she made the declaration.

"Is... that a... a threat?" he tried to smile again but wound up cringing from pain.

"Stop talking! Save your strength!" she held his limp body close to her, not caring about the blood he was dripping onto her lap.

"I'm... dying for you..." he said with a far-off look to his eyes.

"Don't! Live, dammit!" she screamed at him, shocked at the foul word that fell from her lips. "Live for me!"

"I wish... I could..." he said honestly. "But, now... you... you have to live... live for us both... for me..."

She watched in horror as his eyes lost all life. She could feel well the moment he went completely limp in her arms. Her head shot up for a sign of the ambulance but it was still several blocks off. Hope fading, she looked back to the frail young man in her arms. She gave him a light shake, trying to wake him back up. Even as she tried, she knew in her aching heart that it was no use. But she wouldn't give up, couldn't.

"Ryou? Ryou!" her voice raised in pitch. "No... please, no... don't leave me... Ryou, live!" she sobbed and hugged him closer, forgetting the disgusting alley she was in, the sound of the far-way sirens, the warm, sticky blood that soaked her as it flowed freely from his wound. "Live for me..."

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Dustbunny: Gah. Sorry about the corniness

Bunnydust: Not as sorry as the readers, I'm sure

Marshmallow: Um, please review


	4. Morbid Fascination :YMarikMai:

Disclaimer: No new developments as far as Dustbunny owning YGO!

Relationship: (Yami)MarikMai(ish) (One-sided)

POV: First person perspective

Warning(s): Well, it's my first attempt at anything psychological. It's meant to be a bit "WTFrick?" but I may have pushed it. Also, this is a drabble and is therefore quite short. A hundred words only go so far. Otherwise, not much to worry about. I've taken a break from my killing spree and the language is totally clean.

A/N: This is set during their duel.

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How is it that I'm so terrified of you?

I'm a strong woman, one of the top duelists in the world. My deck is tops. I've got a crowd cheering me on while you stand alone.

And yet I'm afraid like I never have been before. Player Killer couldn't so much as dream for results like this. And all it takes is a look into those bottomless lavender pits you call eyes, a few words in that bone-chilling voice. Your very essence seems to be surrounding me, taking me hostage, driving me crazy.

Why is it that I crave more?

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Dustbunny: So, what did you think?

Mai: #cough-Don't-answer-honestly-cough# Ahem. Sorry; something in my throat

Dustbunny: How… discrete

Marshmallow: If you say so… Reviews please!


	5. Righteous Hatred :AmeAnzKai:

Disclaimer: Yeah, she's just received all rights to YGO/ sarcasm

Relationship: AmeldaAnzuKaiba

POV: First person perspective

Warning(s): Short! I wrote this pretty quickly. It was requested and I thought 'Huh…' and the next thing you know, I'm typing this out. It shouldn't be too awful, though. Again, no death. Turns out there is one somewhat bad word near the end, though

A/N: Requested by and dedicated to the wonderful Cerulean San. I'll see about your other request in a few chapters, C-san. I don't want to over-do Anzu-centric triangles. The others would feel left out. (_Others: No we wouldn't!_)

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In a way, it sort of makes sense.

For years I blamed him and his company for ruining my life. I blamed him for destroying my home. My brother's death was his fault. Anything and everything wrong in the world I could immediately pin on to my list of reasons to hate Seto Kaiba.

And why not? So maybe he did grow up hard the way I did. But look where he is, where I am. One of the most important business names in the world is under his control. I'm a glorified rebel fighter. He's always had his little brother to help him get through it. I saw mine die in a burst of flames when he supposed to have been rescued. It was all Kaiba's fault; he was to blame.

Well, that's what I thought.

I was wrong; I was deceived. That much, I'll admit.

But, oh, how easily those old familiar feelings rush back. How simple it is to fall back into the gut-twisting hatred as I watch from the shadows. Of course, I guess this is nothing new to feel towards the person holding the woman you want for your own in his arms.

I don't know when or how. It doesn't add up in my mind. It just is, plain and simple. I want her for myself, and that's that. Soft, curving figure that flows like a fresh water stream. Voice that holds and doesn't let go, and words that dance in one's mind. Startling azure eyes that can comfort and encourage and terrorize almost at once.

Anzu Mazaki.

She's the one I want.

She's the one I can't have.

Why not? Because he has her. That really doesn't add up either, and I mean _really_. How in the seven levels of hell could they possibly wind up together? I can't help but smile sickly: what did the blonde punk have to say about it?

They're kissing. I don't want to see that. Simple solution- I turn and I leave. Parks aren't really my thing anyway. There's nothing here for me.

I think I'll go start a new list.

.9.8.7.6.5.4.3.2.1.9.8.7.6.5.4.3.2.1.

Amelda: … I'm not even going to dignify this with a comment #leaves#

Anzu: I thought you were going to spread everyone out to avoid clumping and favoritism and such

Dustbunny: But C-san requested it! The plot bunny bit my poor finger! I couldn't help it! XP

Marshmallow: What do we want? Reviews! When do we want 'em? Eh, whenever's good for you


	6. Look at Me, I Look Away :JMK:

Disclaimer: A lot can happen in a day and some. A lot probably has happened. Dustbunny owning _YGO! _isn't one of those things

Relationship: KaibaJounouchiMai

POV: Third person perspective

Warning(s): Implied shounen ai. This was meant to be a quasi-confusing read, something that forces you to pay attention. Trust me: pay attention. Um, the romance and angst are both more suggested than actually… there. It probably falls more into the general genre…

A/N: Requested by and dedicated to Lines. (Please believe me, Lines, when I insist that's not an insult n.n')

A/N: This has no specific time set for it. It's meant to take place during a tournament they all happen to be in, but not necessarily one from the canon timeline. Use your imagination

.1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.

He peers at him through his long blonde bangs, not completely sure why he's looking. He's not glaring at the brunette and they aren't fighting. So why is he looking over at him?

It can't be for the reason it seems to be. He can't be slowly tracing his profile, admiring it. He can't be lingering on the firm shape of his jaw. He can't be blushing and wanting a closer look.

Without warning, ice-cold blue eyes- are they navy? What a weird color for eyes- are turned upon his honey browns. The look is fierce and seems to ask, "What do _you_ want?"

Nothing. He wants absolutely nothing. Sweat begins to trickle down his brow. He doesn't want a thing- except maybe something else to focus on, something to take his mind off the recent intrusive thoughts.

There it is.

00000

He can feel the eyes on him. He knows exactly where the gaze is coming from. It isn't a glare, but still so intense. It makes the hair on his arms stand up, despite the heat within his thick sleeves.

Yet the feeling isn't unpleasant. Oh, no, it's far from unpleasant. But somehow the farther it is from unpleasant, the closer it gets to that very same line. So he should want it to stop- but he doesn't. Wait, or does he? It doesn't make sense, but he does and he doesn't.

The matter has become one of survival, now. He's always been a survivor. His steely gaze goes at once to the source of his discomfort. Through a shock of shaggy blonde bangs, his message is transmitted flawlessly: "What do _you_ want?"

The brown eyes are surprised- and maybe guilty? Rather than harden, though, they look away. Sweat appears slowly on the handsomely shaped face. Pleased- and yet, not- he continues to glare as the blonde boy finds something else to catch his attention.

He should be glad, he knows, to have dispersed the pesky stare, but why is he bothered on what is settled on next?

00000

He's staring at her and it's plain to see why. You'd be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn't. But his staring is different. There's far more too it; far more, for sure, than the first time he looked. His eyes outline her, appreciate her shape- this much is true.

But there's more there and he sees it, lets himself get lost in it. This time it's okay because the feeling is familiar. This time is okay because he's not the only one, and nobody will question him if they see.

Then she turns too him with those beautiful amethyst eyes. One delicate, expressive eyebrow quirks. One corner of her luscious red-lipped mouth curves up in a slow, careful smirk. She looks at him as if to say, "May I help you?"

It would have been okay if someone else had seen- but not her. She wasn't supposed to catch him as he stared. He would hear about this later on, and forever as long as they knew each other.

Quickly, too quickly, he averts his gaze. Geeze, you can't look anywhere these days.

00000

She's used to the looks, of course. She's been getting them too long not to be. So she should be able to ignore the feeling of someone watching her. She's done it before; it isn't that hard. But there's something about the gaze upon her that makes her want to turn around.

Yes, she wants to find the source of this feeling. It's almost warm but seems to nip at her. It's almost a comfort but a little bit off. Why? What's causing it? She has to find out.

She doesn't have to look far. Her sharp eyes quickly lock with those the soft color of graham cracker crust. Startled, he blinks, breaking his gaze. She can't help the expression she puts on in response. One eyebrow and one corner of the mouth quirked, she gives him a look that asks, "May I help you?" Apparently not; he looks away.

She would just have to tease him later- after she got over the look of a dramatic hero gazing upon his true love.

00000

Now he's looking at her, trying to see what the other boy saw. There must be more there than what meets his blue eyes. There has to be something more than dips and curves to hold the gaze that was cast upon her.

Maybe it's something he simply can't see. But if he can't see it, how could that dog? No, he's over-looking something; he's over-thinking something. The answer is surely right there in the open. He partly lids his eyes and breathes out and looks at her again though not quite as hard.

Strength and courage and deep passion. It's radiating in glorious waves. How could he miss it before? It was right there, waiting to be seen, begging to be seen. It's almost an audible cry for acknowledgement.

She turns, and she sees him and she looks so surprised. Why should she be? He can look where he pleases. But, for some reason, he still looks away.

She's not the only blonde he can watch.

00000

Someone is looking at her again. Not the same someone, but another someone with a stare that can't be ignored. Her hair stands up on her neck; it feels like she's being appraised.

But ever so slowly- she can tell when it happens- the gaze seems to change and to soften. It's found what it's looking for and is ready to rest. But who is it? She has to know.

Turning, ever so slightly, she lets her eyes sweep the area. They find the target quickly- cool dark blue eyes. Him? He was staring? In the open? She's shocked. He seems unfazed, but turns away all the same.

It isn't lost on her how his eyes had to re-freeze.

00000

He's looking at him, not fully sure why. Perhaps to try to determine what the earlier stare was about? Of course, what else? It wasn't as if he was appreciating the view. He didn't care about the firm, strong jaw line. Never mind the well-built body. There is no disappointment that the lively brown eyes are cast away, out of view.

Is the floor really that interesting? Of course, every other place he looks ends up with some factor of discomfort. Feh, it serves him right. That's just what you get for staring at people (never mind that now it's him staring).

The other boy shifts and his head comes up slightly. From their golden security, his brown eyes search curiously. Cold blue pools divert- too late? Yes, he can see the puzzled frown through his peripheral vision. He was caught.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Wait, why is he stupid? He got caught doing what? It's not a big deal. There's no law on where you can look, on who you can look at. But why was he looking at him anyway? It doesn't matter; no, it doesn't matter. It was just a casual glance, nothing more; it didn't mean anything. The one drop of sweat on his otherwise cool, calm face is nothing, means nothing.

Still, though, he keeps his eyes locked in the other direction.

00000

Gaze stuck to the floor, he can feel the cool scrutiny. Was this what it was like for those he had looked at? No, it couldn't have been. There's no way his glances- especially not the first- felt like this one. It's almost as if someone is studying him- but why? It makes him somewhat uncomfortable.

Shifting slightly, he looks out through the curtain of his bangs. You almost couldn't tell he's looking around unless you're paying attention. That's what he's looking for- someone who's paying attention. That someone is the one sending goose bumps all along his arms. Not a bad thing, really, but… odd.

There- it's _him_. He looks away quickly, but not quickly enough. Oh, no, he's caught. Mister You-aren't-worthy-of-looking-at-me has been caught. He's got him now.

Wait, he's got him? What did he catch him doing? Looking his way? Staring? It's not like it's illegal. But why did he look away like that? It isn't like him. The brunette should still be looking, challenging the blonde to make him do otherwise. What's up with that? And… is that a bead of sweat?

A small shiver goes down his spine, unbidden.

00000

She doesn't know why she's still looking at him. It began as a glance to see if she could catch him at anything else. It was just a glance, to decide whether it would be a good idea to ask him about the brunette watching her. But she didn't approach him when she saw it was clear.

No, she's just been watching him. He was looking at the ground and she almost felt bad. He was no doubt facing down because she had given him that look when he faced her. Who knew he was so sensitive? It was just one tiny little smirk.

His head comes up and she thinks she's been found out. But, no, he's looking in another direction entirely. Following his line of vision, she sees the same uncharacteristic retreat of blue eyes. What on Earth?

She can't help but stare. What, does he have some obsession with blondes?

00000

Sudden, sharp; that was the gaze on him. It just snapped out of nowhere. He has to suppress a shudder at it.

Ever so slowly, it slips away from him. Not too long later, he feels it again.

00000

He isn't sure why he thinks so, but he's sure that someone else had been watching him. Perhaps to confirm the suspicion, it comes back. He stiffs some- it isn't him watching this time. But then who?

00000

Back and forth and back; blonde to brunette and back to the blonde. Each time her eyes linger just longer than necessary as she studies them carefully, curiously. There's an itch in the back of her mind she plans to scratch away.

She sees them shift; she sees them stiffen; somehow she misses what these actions foreshadow.

Brunette to blonde and back to brunette…

00000

Being the calculating person he is, he mentally pinpoints where these strange looks are coming from. The next time he'll be ready to catch the culprit red-handed.

There! With reaction timing almost unmatchable, he shoots his own look in the proper direction and latches on to startled purple eyes. He's not certain but it appears that she's flushing slightly. If he didn't know better, he'd think she looked guilty- but that wouldn't fit her character.

At once she turns away as if to deny what he knows that she did. He sees her blink in surprise at something and it seems as if her almost-blush is darkening. Checking in that direction, he sees what she sees.

00000

He's pretty sure he knows where it's coming from. Next time he'll be ready. Shifting a bit, he cases the place with one eye. Whoever that is isn't watching him now. But if the pattern sticks, they will be any moment.

As his eyes wander, they suddenly catch a surprised gaze. Is she blushing? It looks like she is. But why? Was it her? As they gaze at each other, he becomes certain her was.

His brow furrows a little at her expression. It furrows further when her eyes dart away and then back, as if she's been caught in a trap.

When it happens again, he follows her glance.

00000

Why is she so flustered as she looks at the other blonde? Is it because he had been looking at her earlier? It's possible; she just got caught staring and now she's looking into the eyes of someone who had watched her. It makes sense.

Her eyes dart back to him for a moment and quickly look back. It's almost as if she's trying to find a way to escape.

Turning to see how the blonde boy is reacting, he's mildly taken aback when his navy blue eyes meet honey graham for the third time.

00000

Why was she glancing back at him? Was that why the looks had come and gone? But why between the two of them? He's confused and it frustrates him.

More frustrating, perhaps, is that way his chest clenches when his eyes meet those of deep blue. It's not like it's the first time this has happened. Further frustration: the thought makes his skin warm uncomfortably.

00000

Three sets of eyes dart between one another: navy to amethyst, amethyst to honey graham, honey graham back to navy.

What does it mean?

00000

It doesn't mean anything. It's no different than if nothing has been happening- it may as well not have been.

00000

There's nothing wrong with looking at someone. There's nothing wrong with them looking back. There's no reason they should be acting like thieves caught with a missing museum piece.

00000

What's going on? No more than a few seconds have passed but it seems like much longer. Was he sweating? Gah, this is annoying!

00000

It means nothing. The three break away. All them have things to do, thing with actual meaning. Slowly yet somehow almost too quickly they turn completely and start to leave the area.

One walks away to find a bite (or two or three…) to eat; one walks away to get some work done; one walks away to find a mirror to check her make-up; all three walk away from each other.

There is no regret, they decide- it was nothing.

There is no denial, they decide- it was nothing.

"Nothing" doesn't have to be regretted.

"Nothing" doesn't have to be denied.

It was absolutely nothing.

.9.8.7.6.5.4.3.2.1.9.8.7.6.5.4.3.2.1.

Dustbunny: Urm… #cough#

Jou/Kaiba/Mai: …

Marshmallow: On the off chance that your brain hasn't been turned to mush, please review


	7. He Saw, She Saw :PegCyn:

Disclaimer: Y'know who owns _YGO!_? A man. An Asian man, at that. Dustbunny? She is… an American girl (Yes, I just blatantly ripped off Tom Petty. Feel free to smack me)

Relationship: PegasusCyndia… sorta

POV: Third person

Warning(s): A quarter of a smidgeon of language at the end. This is another attempt at a psychological story, and it might just come across as befuddling…

A/N: I have no earthly idea where in all the worlds this came from. I was trying to work on the BakuraMai request when I realized what holiday is fast approaching. So I figured, why not write something for the occasion. Then I figured that writing something sweet would be flat-out cliché. So I start out with an idea involving Vivian and Kaiba or Yugi. So where does this thing come in? Please refer to the first line of this note. Or, you know, just read the story

.1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.9.

His chuckle was low and seductive.

His sigh was sweet and content.

It was so nice to have Cyndia at home again...

Her whimper was tired and frightened.

Her protest was muffled and weak.

What she wouldn't do to be in her own home again...

He lay next to her, pulling her tightly against him. She looked so beautiful in the white gown he had given her. Over her head he could see the red rose bouquet he had given her along with it. The color complimented her complexion so.

She stiffened as he lay beside her, tried to wiggle out of his grasp in vain. She felt so awkward in the white gown she'd awoken to find herself in, so out of place. Following his gaze, she spotted an elegant vase full of luscious red roses. Despite the romantic ideals related with them, the deep crimson color sent a shiver down her spine.

He felt her shiver against him and smiled with pride. She'd have to wait, though; he wanted only to hold her for now. He ran his fingers through her thick blond hair, relishing the silky texture. He held her more closely, savoring the feeling of her feminine shape meshing with his more masculine physique. Inhaling deeply, he licked his lips at the delicious smell of her perfume. So good to have her back...

She stiffened more and more as he continued to find new ways to explore her. She held in a gasp as he ran his fingers through her hair, messed with her attempts at escape. If not for how tightly he held her, she would have jerked away as he breathed in her scent. Oh, to be able to get away...

He gazed down at her pretty face as she smiled sweetly up at him, lips full and red.

She looked up at him, wishing that the gag would disappear so she could spit in his face.

He kissed her forehead, appreciating the clean, smooth skin.

She retched at his lips on her dirty brow, willing the dead skin to litter his intrusive mouth.

He nuzzled her neck, smiling when she presented more of it.

She bit down on her gag, tried again to pull away as he cuddled up to her.

"Cyndia," he whispered in bliss.

_That's not my name, you freak_, she thought in revolt.

"I love you," he breathed against her.

_I despise you_, she wanted to answer.

He smiled wider against her, oblivious to her grimace.

She grimaced, all too aware of his smile.

In an almost sing-song voice, "Happy Valentine's Day."

_Rot in Hell_, she thought in reply.

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Dustbunny: Can you tell I blanked on an ending?

Mai: Gee, who could possibly tell?

Marshmallow: Hey, there, still with us? Lots of free time, huh? Put it to use and leave a review


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